The World of Crookedsmile
by crookedsmile
Summary: This is about my life.
1. Chapter 1

**Theory of My Existence**

For those who are wondering what this writing is all about, it's not a fictional story. However, I would appreciate if you consider it as a memoir of me, because it's actually made as such. I am an unknown speck of dust, created on a fateful day of this month, the flowering season, or the fire season- March. This writing is a commemoration. I will never forget the day when I was born, for it was the day when I began to take part of this so-called 'existence'.

I live to exist. Not that I exist to live. The two words are very different. When I was younger, I used to interchange these two words, but as time goes on, I simply become more inclined to one of them, rather than the other. I want to exist, not much to live.

The paradox of living is that it can survive without the body. It is less physical, more like a spiritual in nature. I can live on without my arms, or my legs. That could die yet still live on. But in existence, I must be in my physical form, to be able to consider that I do. My own body, my crooked teeth, my unevenly colored skin and feeble bones, define my existence.

Since childhood, I have always marveled on the beauty of physical existence. I could not comprehend it back then, and now, I could only grasp a few aspects of it, which I can understand.

Since existence of the physical body can cease, and be easily corrupted, it has been my desire to understand the significance of maintaining the essence of it. Of making the best of it, for it wouldn't stay as it is. Time proves that. The body cannot keep up with time. It denatures as time goes by, and before you know it, it's already gone.

I'm beginning to experience the diminishing state of physical existence. I've been visiting my dentist frequently, for tooth repairs. My teeth were the first ones to experience the slow process of degeneration. When I was younger, I used to devour sweets like a maniac. And I don't practice dental hygiene. Brushing my teeth is the farthest that I can go. Too bad, lately, my dentist said that my teeth are slowly wearing out. I asked if it's because of my habits, but she said 'no'.

My teeth are weak, because they are naturally weak. I wasn't able to preserve the fundamental nature of my teeth, and now, I watch them tarnishing like pieces of demented dreams on my bathroom mirror.

Then I wonder, how long would I be able to make my body exist? Could my body be drifting away, wasting while my soul is still alive?

Should I be able to exist?

That is when I had the goal of existing. Not just for the sake of my teeth. In this essay, I hope to prove my hypothesis… that I live, to exist.

I was about fifteen when I noticed the changes taking place on my body. My face had a lot of pimples, my hair started to grow drastically long (so I consistently cut it), my hips started to get wider, and my breasts, more obvious. Puberty is the perfect term to describe it. I really don't care about these physical changes. I was more like a 'spiritual person' back then. I characterize myself by the things that I do, not on the way I appear as flesh and blood. Or I become more absorbed into the act of defining my emotional, spiritual and intellectual horizons, that I wasn't able to make sense of my physical existence. But then it wasn't the case now, when I'm eight years older. When my body started betraying me, and depriving me of my youthful satisfaction.

Though our body controlled by the brain (as science claims), I have experiences when my body acts on its own. This excludes body reflexes of course, for they are technically brain-controlled mechanisms.

Examples of this are my hands. They are my perfect servants for they touch the things that I want, do chores for me, and even feed me. But sometimes, they take revenge on me. I just know it. When I try to move them and write legibly, they wobble like uncoiled springs, resulting into an undecipherable handwriting. I became popular in my workplace because nobody can read my lettering other than myself. No matter how I try, they simply resist my aim to improve my lettering. My own hands are betraying me.

One thing that I love about my hands on the other hand, is their texture. Never have I experienced calluses on them, even if I do a lot of lifting and scrubbing and washing. Unlike my teeth, my hands maintain their fundamental nature.

My feet are of a different story. If my teeth were problematic, my feet are far worse. In fact, I've given up on them.

There was a time in my life when I hated my feet. Not because of how they look (well, partially yeah)… but because of how "stupid" my feet were. Perfect example is my awkward movements. My big feet never failed to lose balance on school lobbies, on the school canteen, and even in front of my high school crush. I always trip and "fall" literally. The worse thing about this is I'm on flat shoes! No stilettos. I even trip while on slippers!

How did I manage get back at my feet's behavior? I wore uncomfortable shoes. In some cases, tight shoes and tick socks. But that didn't really work. I ended up soaking my on basin of lukewarm water every night while cursing in pain. My feet's nature was to pester me, and somehow, I managed to tolerate it. The tripping incidents decrease as time goes by, (but then they didn't totally disappear). The calluses weren't that many, and the big toe isn't as horrible as it was once.

In those instances, I realized that my body, with all its pieces has its own story. I wanted to live in harmony with my body, for it solely defines my physical existence. My soul rests in it. And my ideas are incased inside my brain. It's the physical distortion of matter that makes the universe expand. It is the tangible evidence that a universal force is at work.

**I therefore conclude that I, with all my corporeal make up, am a distinct creation that no one can obliterate and plagiarize.**


	2. The universe around

**_The universe around_ **

There's a cat between my feet

I wonder how it speaks

The silence of my tongue

The resonating sound

_The universe around, the universe around_

_Without thinking I sneezed._

I walk inside a dream

Camelot's golden scheme

And tuck my feet beneath

The graves of those who weep

_The universe around, the universe around_

_Without thinking I sneezed._

And those whose love has died

And those who died with love

I tripped beyond the grounds

Of innocence, beguiled

And when the world has gone

The fire and the sun

Incessant season flies by

The road that comes undone

_The universe around, the universe around_

_Without thinking I sneezed_

The leaves fall down,One

And one and one and one

And all my tricks have gone

Beneath the skirts of dawn

_The universe around,_

_The universe around._

**I suddenly thought of making a song out of this mundane moment,if anyone wants to arrange or create a real song out of it, I'll appreciate it very much.**

**Just conatct me ok :)**


	3. AN

AN: It's been a long time and to tell you frankly I couldn't think of something to write

**A.N.**

It's been a long time and to tell you frankly I couldn't think of something to write. It's difficult when you want to do something but you just can't do it. Basically, everyone experiences this and it's not a good feeling at all. To begin with, I hope of finishing "Just High" in about 5 chapters more. But I can't do it. I can't even complete "Look You in the Eye". I am looking forward to starting over what I used to love doing. Yeah, my first love.

-Painting.

I plan to buy stuff like oil paint, brush, maybe an easel and a couple of books for self-learning. Thinking about it, I feel very happy, I just couldn't imagine myself without doing it.

For a person who doesn't have much in life, living for a purpose of _living_ is enough.

Maybe I am a depressed poet, a child of poverty.

I don't have much to offer my parents, not even enough cash to make my mother quit working despite of her getting older. I couldn't even make myself live a contented life.

Perhaps I will never be contented. Thinking of my life, I've always watched everything from a distance: Always observing. When I get a paintbrush, and dip it in color, I feel like washing myself away: the tears and longing for something which I couldn't understand. And when everything is done, whether it's a mess or something nice to look at, I feel a piece of my soul being taken away.

Maybe I'll always feel like this…

You see, I treasure the simplest things: the sun's radiance on my small room every morning; the rays that turn from golden in daylight to tangerine in the lazy afternoon.

The restlessness of the tin roof during the heavy rains, the graceful way of the curtain swaying with the breeze, the sound of my mother's cooking; the music that I alone can hear...

_the tranquility offered by a place inside my head, where beauty is defined by pure emptiness._

Thinking of everything that I have seen since I was a child, nothing has changed. I may have grown older, but my eyes were still the same. I will always see things with these two eyes;

I will always create with these eyes.

And when the time comes that I have to close them, I will smile and thank the world for being the way it is through my eyes.

I feel like writing my final piece, but who knows… maybe this will be my last… or maybe not.

By the way, I smell something good in the kitchen: time to eat.


End file.
